These Cells Are Passages

20 November 2016

When you loved me,
you told me secrets,
and I carefully wrapped each one
and stored them where even you
forget, under leaves and snow,
under traditions and inside jokes.
I recall the location of every truth,
hardened, even though you
are long gone, your footprints trailing.
These treasures
were not enough to keep you.
Surely, I will collect others,
squirrel them away
for a time when I am useful.

12 November 2016

10 November 2016

Maybe there will be
buyer's remorse,
or maybe we will adapt
to the taste of blood.
I hope not,
but my brain fires
differently:
my brain is fire.
Maybe we deserve it.
This is what happens
when we find
our nooses decorative.

04 November 2016

I wanted the chance
to love you through it,
the thick of it,
the rose bush you
threw yourself into.
I wanted the chance
to rise together,
you softly holding me
when I show you I am
a rose worth keeping.
But I am not who you want.
I am a tired ache
and a delicate reminder
of who you can't be
and what you can't do,
and I am left in the bushes,
red and swollen
but unplucked.

26 October 2016

"i need help,"
she said.
and i pictured
the raccoon we saw,
its insides exposed,
leaving a trail
where tires carelessly
drew rushed lines.
i drew a rushed line
from my mouth:
"i am so sorry."
i grabbed her hand,
fumbled with it,
wet clay in my palm.
"let's go.
let's get you what you need."
we flew above the scene
as shapeless ghosts.
below, we saw the raccoon,
reborn,
running away
from its shell,
safe for the moment,
and everything became
smaller and smaller
until it was finally gone.

23 October 2016

Heaven is a freshly-paved parking lot,
(empty,)
tar burning
our nostrils when we breathe,
and I am the child
in the carpeted van,
looking out of the blue-tinted window
(cracked only just):
some small angel,
yellow wings,
carries a fluffy dog in a handbag.
The dog's eyes are covered
(but I look for them anyway).
The angel hurries along,
her bare feet pattering.
The surprisingly fleshy soles
clap against uneven pavement.
"Look here," says a voice
(and I am reminded that I'm not alone).
"Look to me."
And he cradles my round face in his hands.
And I am fresh,
empty,
secure in my seat
as we finish loading the car and leave.

About the Blogger

Shannon Ranee McKeehen, author of Barbra in Shadow and These Cells Are Passages, is a writer and teacher who received her MFA in English and Creative Writing from Mills College. She is currently at Kent State University, where she is pursuing a PhD in the English: Literacy, Rhetoric, and Social Practice (LRSP) program.